


A Song Of My Own

by stonecoldsilly



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Humor, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Happy Ending, Humor, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Pining Jaskier | Dandelion, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:55:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27340831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonecoldsilly/pseuds/stonecoldsilly
Summary: Jaskier falls in love all the time.He’s not a womanizer, per se, and Geralt would find it very difficult to travel with him if he were flitting in and out of beds with little regard for the hearts he breaks and leaves behind.The worst part is that he means every word of it.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 60
Kudos: 423





	A Song Of My Own

**Author's Note:**

  * For [louie43p](https://archiveofourown.org/users/louie43p/gifts).



> happy birthday to my lovely wife, my darling lou, who i adore with every feeble little thump of my heart <3

...

Jaskier falls in love all the time. 

He’s not a womanizer, per se, and Geralt would find it very difficult to travel with him if he were flitting in and out of beds with little regard for the hearts he breaks and leaves behind. The worst part is that he means every word of it. 

Geralt can tell when people lie, with a reasonable degree of accuracy; their heart rate increases, or they sweat more, some little sign their body gives off to warn of their deceit. With Jaskier it’s even easier, being so attuned to him as he now is, to hear the subtle shift in the rhythm of his heart when he tells a little fib about how he lost some of their washing in the river. Jaskier doesn’t lie to him often at all, which is another point in his favour, and only ever about very small things, to save face, or try and ward off Geralt’s admittedly hot temper.

The first time Jaskier falls in love after they meet is about three weeks after Posada, when they reach an inn in some village he’s forgotten the name of.

They’re slowly growing used to each other, having gotten the first battles about Jaskier’s incessant humming and Geralt’s need for at least half an hour of undisturbed meditation a day out of the way. Their first proper spat, Geralt didn’t know whether to try and reign his temper in to avoid scaring him off, or whether to just have it out and get the bard’s departure with over with sooner. He needn’t have worried, Jaskier giving just as good as he got, getting up in his face and shrieking as soon as Geralt raised his own voice. He didn’t smell like fear once, just radiating heat and fury, but it had blown over as soon as he’d set off down the road, with the bard starting up his usual cheery songs and chatter not ten minutes later.

When they get inside the inn, they settle into their dinners before Jaskier plans to perform, and Geralt is concentrating on his stew more than anything else, so when he hears Jaskier’s heartbeat suddenly patter he looks up to find the threat. Jaskier is staring, mouth slightly open, looking at a girl the innkeeper is talking to, who looks to be his daughter. 

She’s pretty enough, plump face and dark hair, but otherwise ordinary. Geralt looks back at Jaskier, who has caught her gaze now and is blushing and making great big cow eyes in her direction. He snorts, and settles into his stew again, determined not to think about why his stomach has dropped or his hands want to clench into fists. He’s known the bard less than a month, and it’s far too soon to be getting attached. It’s not like he _wants_ Jaskier’s attention focused on him anyway, he hardly asked for it, but the tiny kernel of irrational jealousy is there regardless. Perhaps this is simply what the bard does, chases the next shiny and interesting thing, and he won’t want to tag along anymore. 

Jaskier digs an elbow into his side, and he glowers. 

‘What?’

‘She’s lovely, isn’t she? Oh gods, she’s coming over, act natural.’

Jaskier leans back in his seat casually, draping his body to good effect, but Geralt can hear his heart pick up the pace as the girl approaches, mugs of ale in hand.

‘Your drinks, sirs.’ She says, dimpling at Jaskier and ignoring Geralt completely.

‘Hello Jaskier, I’m gorgeous.’ The bard says, red and stuttering. ‘No, I mean… hello, I’m Jaskier, you’re gorgeous.’

His elbow nearly lands in his stew. 

The girl bursts into peals of laughter, and Geralt turns his head, very slowly, to look at the bard’s profile, hopefully conveying some of his disbelief.

‘That’s very sweet of you, Jaskier.’ She says, giggling, and heads back to the kitchens, rosy cheeked and smiling.

Jaskier stares after her, looking adoring, and then shakes himself a little and turns to Geralt.

‘What.’ he says, tone decidedly soupy.

‘Hi Jaskier, I’m gorgeous?’ Geralt says drily.

‘Shut up.’ He smacks Geralt’s arm, and then resumes his staring after the girl.

‘Really?’

‘I’m terrible at flirting.’ Jaskier says absently. Geralt thinks back to their introduction in Posada but decides not to bring it up.

‘Oh, actually Geralt,’ Jaskier turns and looks up at him hopefully. ‘You’re an experienced man of the world, aren’t you?’ He doesn’t like where this is going at all. ‘Do you have any advice?’

‘What.’

‘You know, tips. For the ladies.’ Jaskier waggles his eyebrows ridiculously.

‘No.’

‘Come on, big handsome chap like you? You must be fighting them off with a stick.’

Geralt scowls. If it isn’t already obvious to Jaskier, he doesn’t want to have to explain that most women would rather scream and run than bed him.

‘No.’

Jaskier huffs at him dramatically. ‘Some wingman you are. I need your _help_ with this sort of thing Geralt. What else are friends for?’

Geralt just eyes him warily. ‘Sing her a song or something.’ The last thing he wants to do is give Jaskier advice on his love life. Jaskier nods at this, looking distracted, and picks up his lute to pluck at the strings, whispering half-lines under his breath and tapping his foot under the table.

He gets up to perform eventually, looking a bit more ruffled and nervous than Geralt has seen him before. He fiddles with his hair, and the girl reappears from the kitchens to stand with a little gaggle of friends, whispering and giggling at the bar. 

He flings a panicked look in Geralt’s direction, and for fuck sake, Geralt has no idea what kind of reassurance he’s after. He raises his eyebrows meaningfully, and then gives in entirely. Jaskier still looks worried, so he makes a little thumbs up at him and then settles back into his pint to watch the disaster unfold. 

Jaskier actually does look reassured and blows out a deep breath. He starts with crowd-pleasers, and everyone in the inn seems to know them and sing along. He does have a good voice, and once he settles into his performance the nerves fade entirely. Geralt can hear his heart, thumping away merrily, and he can tell his scent has changed to excitement even at this distance. He shifts to Toss a Coin, and the people gathered love it, as they have in the other taverns and villages they’ve visited. The girl is watching Jaskier very closely now, as he winks and dances and bounces around the room merrily.

He finishes the song, and then turns and bows in her direction, strumming a song that’s new to Geralt’s ears as well, though he thought he’d already heard all of Jaskier’s repertoire by now.

‘ _Because you’re gorgeous, I’d do anything for you,  
Because you’re gorgeous, I know you’ll get me through..._’

The lyrics are clearly improvised, and a little rough, but Jaskier’s whole body lights up when she looks back at him, holding each other’s gaze as he sings a song he wrote on the fly especially for her. His pupils are dilated, his heart is racing, and all Geralt can smell is the sharp bite of vanilla rising in his nostrils, filling the room with cloying sweetness that lingers at the back of his throat. 

He wants to sneer at the simpering girl, that he has his own song as well, and then is abruptly horrified at his own thoughts. He stands, suddenly, and goes up to their room, determined not to think about it anymore.

Jaskier doesn’t come back to the room that night, and thus the pattern is set.

…

Jaskier genuinely tries not to fall in love with Geralt. 

He’s a bard, a poet, accustomed to following his heart’s whims wherever they may take him, short-lived romances that burn out acrimoniously, leaving him broken-hearted and scribbling his anguish and passion into a ballad, dwelling on the hurt to fill his pockets.

It’s damnably difficult not to fall in love when the kindest, most noble man he’s ever met shares a campfire, a room, a bed with him. It really doesn’t help that Geralt is so beautiful, all masculine leather and handsome features, his lovely hair, and gods, the sonnets Jaskier could write about just the curve of his shapely arse. He has the tragic figure of sweeping romance, and Jaskier is resigned to the comic part. At least if he is to play the fool, he plays it excellently.

He just about manages to hold off from tipping into full blown adoration, viciously stamping out any tender feelings that creep up and entwine their way around his heart. He keeps any fond feelings compressed into a steady simmer, rationalising any pangs of longing as mere lust-addled imaginings.

He tends to spend a few months travelling with Geralt and watching himself carefully for the moment when his idle fantasies of fantastic, acrobatic sex soften into sweet embraces and romantic confessions, then departing swiftly before he betrays himself in some way. 

He dares anyone to travel for months on end alone with the same fiercely kind man, and not fall at least a little in love. Geralt tolerates his presence, if barely sometimes, and any hint of further entanglement will find that begrudging tolerance withdrawn in no short order.

He buries himself in distractions – without Geralt, he whirls from court to court in a riot of intrigue and scandal, brazen cheek and stirring up trouble wherever he goes, and with Geralt by his side, he occupies himself with as many dalliances as he can, letting his foolish heart lead him where it will, desperately hoping that this time will be the one that sticks, the one that finally tears him away from trailing after Geralt like a love-sick puppy all over this blasted Continent.

Geralt is his _friend_ , and he cannot afford to lose that friendship to his pathetic longings. 

He throws himself into love, courting and seducing and letting himself be swayed by the curve of a fine neck, or the precise timbre of their laughter, flashing eyes and the soft brush of hands as they dance, ever the hopeless romantic.

Jaskier finally tips over the edge one soggy autumn night in Velen. 

It’s been a long day of travel, and he is soaked to the bone. The rain has been heavy and constant, churning the dirt road up to muddy puddles that seep their way into his boots, and his fine clothing affords him no protection. He feels bedraggled, drops trickling down the back of his neck and shivering down his spine. 

He squelches along uncomfortably, trudging miserably behind Roach and keeping his eyes fixed on the road at his feet, squinting in the last of the grey sunlight and trying to skirt around the larger puddles as best he can.

His lute is safe in its waterproof case, but the strap digs into his shoulder something rotten, and he is starting to chafe in his wet clothes. 

He sniffs damply, and lets himself wallow in maudlin self-pity, lost in sorrowful musings that he keeps firmly unvoiced, lest Geralt snap that he doesn’t _have_ to follow him around.

‘…aren’t you?’

Geralt’s voice fades into earshot, and Jaskier raises his head dully. 

‘Yes.’ He says quietly, too tired to bother asking Geralt to repeat himself, and then fixes his gaze back on the road.

He plods on, concentrating on where he’s putting his feet, endless grey rain in an endlessly grey world, allowing the monotony to lull him into a fugue state, the sharp bite of cold and wet blunted by the endlessness of it all. 

‘-askier. Jaskier!’ Geralt reins Roach into a halt in front of him, so he has to stop in his tracks or bump into her rear.

His thoughts scatter before he can stop them, and he blinks back into awareness. Geralt is staring down at him, clearly expecting an answer to something, and he can’t summon the effort to care.

A faint prickle of irritation rises, that now he will have to work at falling back into the rhythm of the walk, and the sudden stop makes him shiver with the cold. 

Geralt frowns at him, while Jaskier stares blankly in his direction, waiting for the delay to be over with.

‘You’re quiet.’ Geralt says carefully. 

Jaskier shrugs in response, the strap of his lute creaking against his shoulders and digging into his spine. 

He wraps his arms around himself, trying to keep out the chill, and sets off again, navigating steadily around Roach, footsore and heartsore all at once. 

The further he walks in the last of the daylight, the less he’ll have to walk in the dark, he reasons, and stubbornness is the only thing keeping him upright at this point.

He manages about a hundred yards of shambling along in the dim grey light before Geralt catches up with him. 

‘Jaskier, what’s wrong?’ He says, sliding off Roach’s back and approaching cautiously, as though trying not to spook him.

‘N-nothing.’ Jaskier says, trying not to let his teeth chatter too much. He is frozen to the very bone, and exhausted, and sodden through, and nothing good will come of mentioning it. ‘-m just a bit cold.’ He tries to insert his usual cheer into his voice, but it falls flat.

Geralt grips his shoulder with one mighty paw and then frowns. ‘Jaskier, you’re freezing.’

He shakes helplessly, as though finally hearing the words aloud is permission to give up the pretence entirely.

Geralt scowls, furrowed brow etching deep creases in his face, and then before Jaskier can even open his mouth to reply, Geralt swings his legs out from under him and sweeps him up on to Roach.

He unbalances wildly for a moment, trying not to tip straight backwards onto the road, hands stiff and the grip on the saddle too slippery. Geralt’s hand on his back steadies him, and then the Witcher climbs into the saddle, rearranging Jaskier so he’s sitting upright, practically in his lap and leaning awkwardly against Geralt’s chest, legs dangling on one side of Roach’s pommel. 

He tries to keep himself at a slight distance, but Geralt unfolds a swathe of his handsome winter cloak and tucks it around Jaskier gently. 

It’s not the driest material, but it is warm, and he blinks up at Geralt gratefully and lets his chilly fingertips hold the seam closed around him, keeping the worst of the wind out. 

Geralt isn’t frowning anymore, but he doesn’t look exactly happy either, and Jaskier tenses slightly. 

‘You should tell me these things.’ Geralt rumbles, nudging Roach into a steady walk.

‘Don’t worry, you take very good care of me.’ He says, trying for a joke, but the effect is slightly spoiled by the shivers that rack his spine.

Geralt wraps an arm around his waist and tugs him closer. ‘No, I don’t.' He says, sounding almost sad. 'We’re not far from the nearest inn.’

Jaskier tries to hold still, but Geralt is so _warm_. He’s warmth and safety and comfort, and Jaskier is exhausted and too weak to hide it. 

He lets himself sag completely into that strong embrace, trusting Geralt to support him, and presses his cold nose closer into the crook of Geralt’s neck. Geralt hums under his breath, and the steady clopping of Roach’s hooves mingles with the patter of the rain. He drifts into sleep, warm and safe and almost dry in Geralt’s arms, and the little flame of love he’d tried so hard to stamp out roars into a wildfire.

…

They have one more night together, and then the winter will separate them. Jaskier will get the coach to Oxenfurt, and Geralt will make his steady way up to Kaer Morhen, and long for spring again.

After ten years of this, Geralt really ought to know better, but he is head over heels for Jaskier, and there is no helping it now. He was resigned to it ages ago, and almost welcomes wallowing in the misery of it. For the first time in his life he understands what all the damn songs are actually about, and he rides around the Continent with a sweet trail of music behind him. He doesn’t let it affect the precious time he gets to spend with his brothers, with Vesemir, but damnit he _misses_ Jaskier in the winter. He often thinks of taking Jaskier to meet them, but he has commitments to his university, and a whole host of entertainments planned. He wouldn’t want to give all that up to spend months in a draughty old castle, long past its best, with only four sour old Witchers for company.

The keep in the mountains is crisp air and frost, a hushed breath of time before the whole world wakes up again in the spring and he can ride out to meet Jaskier again. The flowers bloom as he hunts; first snowdrops, then daffodils, the land unfolding in green promise as their reunion nears.

He pretends not to search for the bard, but search he does; following snatches of hummed tunes across rivers and kingdoms until he sets eyes on Jaskier himself, the source of merry music that shapes the world around him, always greeting him with a ready smile.

He feels foolish, love-struck and longing, pretending gruffness and pushing Jaskier away, trying not to let it give him too much hope when Jaskier refuses to leave his side. He hates doing it, hates himself for making that light dim in Jaskier’s eyes, but sometimes he almost thinks there could be more than friendliness there. When they’re alone, and Jaskier plays idle tunes by the firelight, the way he looks at Geralt is enough to make his steady heart skip a beat. 

Then they head into town, and Jaskier falls in love again, and Geralt is getting dreadfully accustomed to watching the man he loves fall into bed with the first person to catch his eye. He tries to hold firm to the remembrance of it; hundred of lonely nights watching Jaskier leave with someone else, returning to him the next morning covered in purple bitemarks and still swooning with soppy vanilla-scented love. 

It never works. When they’re alone, and Jaskier smiles at him, he forgets all about everyone else that attracts the bard’s attention instead of him, and manages to fall in love afresh six times before breakfast. It is a hopeless sort of longing at this point, but he dares anyone to travel for months on end alone with the same relentlessly beautiful man, and not fall at least a little in love.

It’s exhausting; not letting his eyes follow Jaskier’s body too closely as he plays and dances in taverns, to avoid listening too intently to the little choked off gasps he makes in the throes of passion, to sit through the agonies of a Bath (as he’s taken to calling it in his head) without just hauling Jaskier into the water with him and trying his luck.

Sometimes their paths will diverge, Jaskier suddenly announcing he has to attend court right away, or there’s a suspiciously well timed competition that cuts their travels together short. He doesn’t press, too grateful for his presence to grasp after more. He has little enough to offer as a way of diversion, most of their time being spent in the pursuit of creatures that Jaskier has seen him fight dozens of times before, and amount to little more than pest control. If Jaskier needs to relieve his boredom someplace more exciting, with someone more suited to his tastes, then Geralt will be glad for what little time he does get.

They have mere hours now, the candles lit in the tavern, dark falling outside, and the promise of parting in the early morning when the first coach leaves.

The steady rattle of the post coach arriving in town chimes dully with every candle-mark, and he tries not to think of it as a countdown, wishing for once that his hearing wasn’t quite so good.

Jaskier sits opposite him, hair curling damply at the ends with sweat, still vibrating with giddiness after his pre-dinner performance. He looks radiant, lithe and slender, handsome new doublet matching his pretty blue eyes, and Geralt is sick of the soppy mush his thoughts tend toward when faced with Jaskier like this. It’s maddening; how vital and alive he looks, still tapping his fingers in an echo of his lute strings, gesturing wildly while he rips his bread into little chunks and catches them in his mouth, a flash of pink tongue darting out occasionally to ensure Geralt loses his head entirely.

He doesn’t rein himself in, tonight of all nights, when winter is so near and Jaskier so close, but lets himself look his fill, enjoying the view enormously and sipping idly from what must be his fifth pint as Jaskier starts a relentlessly amusing argument in favour of Witchers packing up their accommodations in Kaer Morhen and spending the winter in the warmer south instead.

‘Perhaps Toussaint? Cidaris? We could go to the coast.’ Geralt tries to picture Vesemir building sandcastles, and nearly snorts ale out from his nose.

‘You get sunburnt.’ 

‘I could wear a hat.’ Jaskier says, putting on an affronted air, eyes dancing merrily.

‘Not after what happened to the last one.’ 

The last hat Jaskier wore sported an enormous peacock feather, and Roach eventually got sick of it waggling in her ear as Jaskier walked next to her and snatched it right off his head while Geralt laughed himself sick.

‘Our darling girl does get rather snippy sometimes.’ He leans forward cheekily and grins at Geralt. ‘Somewhat like her rider, in fact?’

‘Jaskier, you wound me.’ Geralt says drily. ‘Are these to be your parting words?’

Jaskier gasps and tries to look offended, but he can’t stop the smile sliding back onto his face. ‘Never. My parting words will only be the most tender of endearments, my darling Witcher, so that you might know in truth how I long for you when the cruel grip of winter separates us once more.’

Geralt hums in response, not daring to reply honestly to Jaskier’s jest, and tries not to show how lovestruck even the pretence makes him.

He gets too lost in Jaskier’s fond gaze, their legs brushing gently under the table, and only his reflexes stop him from jumping out of his skin when the innkeeper appears next to their table.

‘Begging you pardon, sirs. I only wanted to ask, will you be playing for us this evening as well, master Jaskier?’

Geralt leans back in his seat hurriedly, too entranced to notice how he’d swayed closer to those pretty blue eyes, and tries to calm himself while Jaskier talks to the innkeeper.

‘-not, my friend and I are parting tomorrow, and I have promised the remaining portion of the night to be spent in his company.’

Geralt blinks, caught off guard. 

Jaskier darts a quick look at him, and resumes chatting to the innkeeper, apologising profusely, while Geralt smiles a little hesitantly to himself.

It’s not often he keeps Jaskier’s attention when they’re in a new town, especially not the first night, when plenty of people have already complimented his performance, and made plain that they would be interested in a private one. 

He’s bizarrely touched, and happiness thrills through him, that he doesn’t have to spend the night alone in a cold room, trying not to listen to Jaskier’s enthusiastic exploits, and then wave goodbye after a brief breakfast.

They have the whole evening ahead of them, and he waits patiently for Jaskier to finish charming another round of drinks out of the innkeeper. The fellow waddles off, and Jaskier wags a finger at him.

‘I’m yours for the evening, Geralt. One last night in my wonderful company. What would you like to do with me?’

And hell, if that doesn’t conjure up some ideas he has to strangle very quickly, lest the blush show on his face outright.

‘If you don’t want to be bothered, maybe we should head upstairs?’

‘You are keen, aren’t you?’ Jaskier winks. ‘Well, at least you bought me dinner first.’ 

Geralt tries not to look too besotted.

‘Hang on.’ He says, frowning. ‘I thought…‘

‘I put it on your tab.’ Jaskier says brazenly, and then the little bastard steals his pint and slips through the crowd to the staircase.

Geralt sighs, aiming for exasperated and missing by a mile. He picks up Jaskier’s bloody lute, and heads over to the bar. If he’s already paying for dinner, he may as well treat Jaskier properly before they part ways. He buys two bottles of red, and orders a bath to their room as well, before heading up the stairs himself.

Jaskier is pulling his long boots off when Geralt opens the door, clearly making himself at home. The fire is lit, crackling merrily in the grate, and Geralt waves the bottles of wine in his direction, receiving a hearty cheer in response.

‘Jolly well done. You do spoil me something rotten.’ Jaskier says, casually shucking off his breeches and hopping on one leg, catching his balance on the bedpost. 

He unlaces his doublet with rather more care, peeling himself out of soft blue silk and sprawling on the bed in just his chemise and smallclothes.

‘Crack the window, would you? I’m roasting.’ Geralt turns away hurriedly, uncorking the bottles with his teeth and rushing to get some fresh air himself.

He takes a long drink to cool his head, bracing himself to turn back around, and there he is, unashamed and glorious by firelight, those long legs bare, shirt draped invitingly over his thighs, and holding his hand out pleadingly for his own bottle.

Geralt steps closer, as though in a dream, and Jaskier takes his wine gratefully and drinks it straight from the neck, throat working to swallow and soft little gulps escaping him. A wave of dizziness washes over him, and he doesn’t know if it’s the wine or just Jaskier working his usual magic.

He sits down on the bed, knees weak, and Jaskier tuts at him.

‘Not in the whole get up, really Geralt.’ 

Jaskier shuffles over on his knees, and begins unbuckling his armour, practiced hands working him over deftly while he tries to sit still as he can and not pant for breath so damn loudly.

Eventually the torture is over, and he can breathe freely, left horribly exposed in just his shirt and trousers. Although Jaskier has far less clothing on, he feels terribly raw and naked, under that keen blue gaze.

Jaskier pats the bed encouragingly, and Geralt rearranges himself obediently, so they’re leaning against the headboard together, too soft in love to deny him anything on tonight of all nights.

The sudden thundering of the post-coach rumbles in his ears, and he counts another hour closer to Jaskier’s departure.

Desperation rises, choking him, and he scrambles for something to say that isn’t begging Jaskier to stay by his side.

‘Would you tell me a story?’ He says, unthinkingly. 

Jaskier raises an eyebrow, and his hands stop fiddling with the wine bottle for a second while he looks at Geralt.

‘Or a song, even. It doesn’t have to be a story, I mean.’ He says hurriedly, seconds away from slapping his hands over his wine-soft mouth. 

‘Of course, Geralt.’ Jaskier says archly. ‘I did say I’m yours for the night.’

Only for the night, Geralt thinks, and tries not to tip into sorrow too soon while Jaskier is still here in front of him.

‘Once upon a time, there was a girl who fell in love with a star…’

Jaskier weaves a beautiful tale out of thin air, pausing only to wet his throat, clearly improvising on the spot just for Geralt, who listens carefully to every word so he will remember it over the winter.

The knocking of the door interrupts them as the serving girls haul hot water into the room, and Geralt gestures towards the bath, chivvying Jaskier out of his shirt and shooing the maids out quickly so that the story might continue. 

He sits beside the bath, rolling his sleeves up and idling his hands in the water while Jaskier carries on the tale, flushed pink with steam, the gentle splashing of the bath a lovely accompaniment to his honey-soft voice. Geralt feels abruptly homesick, though his home is right in front of him, naked and beautiful, and soon to be absent from his side for months.

Jaskier keeps telling the story, even when dry and tucked up warm in bed, wine bottle near emptied beside him. He yawns though his words, and his eyes keep drifting closed of their own accord. Geralt watches his face, and their legs tangle together, even as Jaskier’s head slips right off his elbow and lands on the pillow. 

Geralt smiles fondly, and watches him sink into sleep, hoping that a tale unfinished will mean they are destined to reunite in the spring, instead of relying upon chance. He forgoes sleep easily, instead studying the light and shade on Jaskier’s face as the night irrevocably fades into daybreak, pressing the image indelibly in his mind so that when the autumn fades into true winter, his love will not fade with it. 

...

Jaskier passes his bag to the footman, patting his pockets to make sure he hasn’t forgotten anything. 

‘If I’ve left something Geralt, will you keep it for me? Until spring?’

A long-suffering look is all he gets, but Jaskier beams up at him anyway. Geralt sees him off infrequently, preferring short goodbyes, so he wants to take advantage of every single extra second of the Witcher’s tolerance.

‘Oh, I will miss that stern face of yours.’

A hum of acknowledgement is all he gets, but it’s enough to spur his bravery. If Geralt is cross with him, surely a winter apart will soothe his temper. Jaskier darts forward and throws his arms around Geralt, hard enough that he’s sure to bruise on that armour. He tucks his nose in Geralt’s neck, squeezing him tight enough that some of his desperation must be obvious, and is rewarded by an achingly gentle pat to his back. 

One brief moment of warmth and safety is all he allows himself, and then he huffs out a sharp breath, rearranging his face back into a carefree grin, and pulls back before the temptation to linger overwhelms him and spoils Geralt’s surprisingly generous mood.

‘Now you behave yourself. And stay safe.’ He wags a finger, and Geralt raises his eyebrow.

‘Shouldn’t I be telling you that?’

He smiles helplessly, and then straightens his shoulders back into place, calling on all his acting ability to make it through the last moments before his departure, when the sorrow is strongest. 

He whirls into action, calling for the footman to attend to his lute carefully, charming the man and flattering his well-polished buttons, nodding politely at the other passengers lining up, remarking on how he will miss the lovely sights of Velen, conscious of his posture and the movement of his hands at all times, drawing attention to himself as a shield. 

He presses a swift kiss to Roach’s nose and slips her one last sugar lump beneath Geralt’s watchful eye. He smiles at Geralt quickly, not daring to speak a final goodbye lest something entirely too besotted slip out, and turns to climb into the carriage.

Geralt’s hands tug softly at his waist, and he judders to a halt. 

Gently, he lifts Jaskier into the coach himself, setting him down carefully and bypassing the little steps entirely. Jaskier swivels round to face him, lips parted in surprise and too many soppy words come to mind for him to say anything useful.

Geralt nods briskly, and then tips his head to the side in that manner he has that Jaskier always labels as ‘fond’ in the quietest corner of his heart.

He smiles, one last time, lit golden and handsome, and Jaskier doesn’t really need to say anything at all. 

The other passengers bustle in, and Geralt moves off to stand by Roach, stroking her mane gently, while Jaskier tries to settle his wildly racing heart and calm the blush that wants to bloom in his cheeks.

The carriage lurches into motion, and he can’t resist hanging out of the window and calling after them, desperately keeping the image crisp and clear in his mind for all the long winter to come, Geralt on Roach, looking as they ever do, and receding from sight even as he shouts.

‘Goodbye Roach! Goodbye Geralt, I love you!’ 

He slips his head back in before he makes even more of a fool of himself in front of his fellow passengers, who are no doubt already giving him very strange looks for being the companion of a Witcher anyway.

Jaskier exchanges a polite nod with the affluent looking chap opposite him, smiles at the governess escorting her charges, and decides he’s done enough pleasantries and settles in for a good sulk.

He stares, unseeing, out of the window, thoughts circling round that last glimpse of Geralt and Roach and preserving it in his memory. The carriage rolls steadily onwards, and he shifts to get more comfortable. There’s no point fetching his notebook for a while yet, not until the simmering loss has had its first anguished whirl through his mind.

He sighs, and accidentally makes eye contact with the fellow opposite him, who, now he comes to think of it, is staring rather more vigorously than is usually considered polite. 

He looks away quickly, determined not to get dragged into conversation, but the governess is staring at him too. And the children.

He must be the most interesting thing they’ve seen in ages, if they’re this determined to gawp at him.

He can _feel_ their gaze on his face now, and he turns to fully face the window with a sniff.

Well really, as though there were something truly bizarre about saying farewell to a Witcher on friendly terms, when half the Continent can sing along to Jaskier’s songs of the White Wolf, it’s insulting. 

It ought to be perfectly reasonable, and he does not appreciate the stares already. If the first five minutes of their journey is this awkward, he is dreading the long trip to Oxenfurt even more than usual.

They are _still_ staring. He pats his face as subtly as he can manage, just to check.

Perhaps they are overwhelmed by his fame? After all, it’s not everyday you witness an immensely popular bard say farewell to his notorious Witcher friend, tell him he loves him, and then sit in your coach to travel with you. 

Jaskier pauses, uncertainty rising in the pit of his stomach, and then replays that sentence in his head again.

He said farewell to Geralt, _told him he loves him_ , and then popped his head back in the window, casually as anything.

Oh, _fuck._

His eyes widen, mouth dropping open in sheer horror.

Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.

An unmistakable air of satisfaction comes over the other passengers then, the governess and the well-dressed chap exchanging significant looks. 

‘Did I?’ He stammers.

‘Yes.’ They say in unison.

He slumps in his seat, sliding down the velvet until he can put his hands over his mouth and screech a little.

It just slipped out, for fuck’s sake, ten years of discretion, and he managed to ruin it all without even realising. His heart is pounding in his ears, and he tugs at his hair wildly.

‘Chin up lad,’ says the man opposite, ‘it can’t be as bad as all that.’

‘Don’t you two normally split up for the winter anyway?’ The governess chimes in. ‘He’ll have forgotten all about it come spring, don’t you worry.’

Unsolicited advice, from people who apparently follow his career with great interest. 

Even the two sticky children are watching him with awestruck glee.

He sighs again, and attempts to calm himself, breathing deeply instead of picking up his lute and beating himself to death with it.

Three deep breaths later, he is hardly any calmer, and the passengers are still watching him avidly.

He gathers his thoughts, and opens his mouth to respond, hopefully charming them into keeping this little revelation a secret, when the distinct clopping of a familiar pair of hooves comes into earshot.

‘Oh _fuck_.’ He says wildly, and looks around frantically for escape. 

His hands flail madly, and even if he got a head start and his own horse, there’s no way he could outrun a Witcher.

The hooves grow louder, and closer, and Jaskier outright panics, thinking about how Geralt is just going to ride up and say he might as well not bother looking for him in the spring.

‘Is that him?’ asks one of the children, and their governess shushes them, avidly watching Jaskier jerk about in his seat as he thinks of madder and madder plans to flee.

The footman cries out a greeting behind them, and he can make out the muffled voice of the driver, before he hears Geralt’s irrepressible growl and the tips of his ears go red.

There is a tapping on the roof, and the footman leans around the side of the coach and calls through the window. ‘Master Jaskier? Your Witcher is here.’

‘My apologies, there’s nobody by that name here.’ He says quickly. ‘You may want to try the nearest river. I think he’s probably trying to drown himself.’

There is a beat, as this is relayed to Geralt, and Roach keeps pace with the coach easily. Jaskier’s heart thumps in his chest, and his hands are shaking.

‘He says, is there a Julian Alfred Pankratz?’

He makes a show of looking at the other passengers enquiringly, and the governess is hiding her smile in her handkerchief.

‘Terribly sorry, would you tell him last we heard, he was on the Temerian coach? Better get started now if he wants to catch up.’

The footman grins at him through the window, and shouts this to Geralt. Absolutely unnecessarily, and completely farcical, given that a Witcher’s hearing can probably make out every heartbeat in the carriage.

The footman leans back, and says ‘How about the Viscount of Lettenhove?’

‘Goodness me,’ he says, affecting an offended air. ‘This is only a six-person coach, where on earth does he think we’re hiding all these people?’

The governess shifts over to the window herself and addresses the footman directly. ‘Unfortunately the Viscount was detained on urgent business, and sailed to Skellige, I believe, with the noontide.’

Jaskier bursts out laughing before he can stop himself. She grins back at him, and waves her handkerchief in support.

They wait in the carriage, as the footman calls this out to Geralt, even the children picking up on the mood and swinging their legs in excitement.

The footman chortles as he sways back into view. ‘The Witcher says if he’s in there, at this point he’ll settle for Valdo Marx.’

Jaskier gasps in outrage and sticks his head out of the window before he can think too hard about it.

‘You take that back!’

Geralt and Roach are a few paces behind the coach, and the footman swings back into position, eyes dancing between them.

Geralt is smiling at him, face transformed from its habitual scowl, and merriment always looks so wonderful on him that Jaskier quite forgets to be cross.

He urges Roach forwards, until he is riding alongside the coach and just within arm’s reach of Jaskier, who promptly swats him on the wrist, hanging out of the window like a lunatic.

‘What…er. What are you doing here?’ He says, as casually as he can manage. ‘Did I forget something?’

Geralt’s hands tighten on the reins, and he looks away briefly, before pinning Jaskier in place with the force of his golden gaze.

‘Did you mean it?’ He says slowly.

‘Ah, that, yes, well… certainly, I’ve made no secret of being enormously fond of you and dear Roach of course, right from the very beginning of our acquaintance, I’ve always said…’

‘Jaskier.’ Geralt says, and something about the bewilderment in his voice makes Jaskier pause in his excuses.

He sets his shoulders as firmly as he can whilst hanging half out of the window. May as well get it over with, he thinks.

‘Yes.’ 

Geralt’s eyes widen as the full meaning of that one word hangs in the air between them.

The footman gasps aloud, forgotten behind them.

Geralt guides Roach a touch closer, and his gaze darts to Jaskier’s lips, roving his face even as the biggest smile Jaskier has ever seen him wear breaks out unstoppably on his face.

‘It’s the same.’ Geralt says. ‘For me.’ 

‘Gosh, how wonderful.’ Jaskier says, too shocked to do anything but let his mouth take over automatically. ‘Would you mind terribly excusing me for just one moment?’

He ducks back into the carriage with a polite smile, and draws the little curtain over the window hurriedly.

He turns to his fellow passengers, and meets their gaze one by one. 

A heartbeat of silence reigns in the coach, and then they all squeal with delight in unison. 

The governess reaches over to give him a firm thump on the back and the man opposite grabs for his hand to shake it. The children babble and squeak with glee, and Jaskier giggles happily, wiping tears of joy from his eyes.

‘Go and get him lad!’ The footman calls from outside, joining in the merriment by slapping the roof of the coach.

He makes a seated bow to the well-dressed chap, presses a happy kiss to the hand of the governess, and ruffles the children’s hair until they shriek.

‘I’m terribly sorry to cut our journey together short, but I’m afraid I have urgent matters to attend to. It’s been simply smashing to meet you all, really it has. I’ve had a marvellous time, and I wish you all a pleasant trip.’ 

And with that, he opens the door of the coach entirely, and launches himself through the air in one enormous leap straight at Geralt, who catches him firmly and pulls him onto Roach. 

He holds out a hand for his lute, and the governess leans out to hand it over with a wink. 

The footman passes his bag down as Geralt whirls Roach around, and he manages to snag the strap just as he spurs Roach into a gallop. 

‘Goodbye! Goodbye!’ He calls, and the waves and cheers from the coach follow them down the road as he laughs and laughs, caught tight in Geralt’s arms.

...

**Author's Note:**

> the song i so blatantly thieved is Baby Bird's You're Gorgeous, which is a relentless banger <3


End file.
